


Solitarius

by Sianna_the_fanartist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Forests, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, Magic, Nature, Present Tense, pretentious bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sianna_the_fanartist/pseuds/Sianna_the_fanartist
Summary: "What you must understand is that Crowley is not cool. He is only intimidating when he forgets himself, when his hold on his human visage slips to reveal his underside, the pale belly of the cave-thing, the chink in the armor of the dragon, the black hole in the middle of the galaxy. When he tries to frighten, only those with a weaker will or a sensitive temperament bend to him. Those with a weaker will, or plants."In which Crowley is sad and lonely and wards a cottage with demon magic because he's sad and lonely. Also I compare him to Puck.





	Solitarius

Crowley kneels.

The air is cool and wet and carries the faint smell of damp rotting. He is deep in an English forest at dusk, and he is kneeling in the middle of what humans would call a fairy ring. 

It is 1302. His hair is long and tumbles over his shoulders in copper waves. He is not there on official Hell business, nor is he there on unofficial Hell business. He is not there for Aziraphale business, either, which was what he had taken to calling assignments given to him by way of the Arrangement. He is not there for business at all, in fact. He is there for what _could_ be called personal reasons, had one been particularly delicate in their descriptions. Had one been less delicate, what he is doing could be described as being incredibly sentimental.

A few humans had lived here, long ago. A few meters in front of him were the crumbling ruins of an old stone cottage. It had once been home to a woman, her husband, and their young daughter, who all lived in one room and kept a few goats in the pen outside. There was no evidence of the pen at the time that Crowley returned to visit.

He’d been fond of the family, especially the daughter, who took ill not long after he started visiting. Her name was Maud, and her illness was unknown. Crowley had done his best to ease her passing, when the time came, but healing was difficult for him. Bringing animals back to life was one thing, but the miraculous recovery of a human would attract far more attention and would take much more from him. So, Maud died before either of her parents, at the age of six.

Her mother, Lettice, was distraught. She’d already led a tough life—her name was Lettice, after all—and the loss of a child was too much. She was downed by grief, rarely getting out of bed. Her husband, Eadric, was left to the burden of caring for her, maintaining the household, and dealing with his own grief.

Crowley had tried to make things easier on them, but in the end, they shooed him away.

“Puck,” Lettice croaked, calling him by the name she’d started calling him the day they met. Crowley had not been sure of why she called him that, but he’d done a little snooping around, and apparently a Puck was a manner of fairy that could be helpful but was just as often troublesome. He’d been quite flattered, and never corrected her.

Pucks are also terribly lonely creatures, according to folklore, and make a pastime out of making friends, but Crowley did not know this. He didn’t know because it hadn’t been a part of folklore yet—after all, that particular tidbit arose because of peasants’ impressions of him. He would be terribly distraught to learn this. He did so value his devil-may-care attitude, after all.

“Puck,” Lettice croaked, “You’ve done enough for us. Let us go.”

And so Crowley did. He disappeared into the woods, dissolving like the mist that divided the residents of the little cottage from the rest of the world. He next popped up in Iceland. The assassination of Snorri Sturluson by political agents showing a surprising lack of mercy could, of course, be attributed to him, but he showed deadly malice almost never. It could have been the influence of an angry, grieving demon, or it could have been coincidence and the darker side of human nature. I’ll leave it to you to decide.

Now, he is back in England. As he had approached the cottage, mycelium curled around tree trunks and poisonous mushrooms sprouted betwixt the roots, symptoms of his heartache and demonic nature. Beelzebub had their flies, Hastur had his toads and toad-warts, many lower ranking demons had worms, maggots, moths, and rot. Crowley had gorgeous, vividly colorful fungi that could kill with a single mouthful and potent venom hiding behind perfectly white teeth.

Perhaps it was no wonder that the peasants who made his acquaintance immediately pegged him as a fairy, or a nature spirit. Perfect teeth, clear skin, shining hair, strange eyes. No food he ate could be shared, for fear of taking ill [1]. He was easily offended, and would leave without a word if one mis-stepped. Don’t take too many suggestions from him, elders warned, as all too often he’ll lead you astray—but just as often, he’ll lead you to fame and fortune. 

Fickle, dramatic, and with magical powers, Crowley knelt in the middle of a fairy ring. Can we say that fairies aren’t real, that the legends are just based on him and his angel? Can we say that fairies are just the result of the incredible machine known as the human mind? Can we say those things, when words are just descriptions of things and concepts, and “fairy” here is just a description of Crowley? Can’t we say that Crowley _is_ a fairy?

One can say any of these things. In this case, perhaps it depends on one’s interpretation of folklore.

Crowley, as I’ve said, is kneeling in a fairy ring, which one could call a Crowley ring. This particular fairy ring is definitely a Crowley ring, as Crowley is in it, and Crowley made it. And a few meters ahead of him is a crumbling cottage, which once belonged to a family he was fond of.

What is he doing there? Maybe it’s just sentimentality, something he’s prone to from time to time. See, he’s crying a little. That’s definitely sentiment.

He stands up. Mycelium wedges into cracks and sprouts into a sickly rainbow. Little grass snakes hiss in the undergrowth. Mist drifts aimlessly around branches. Crowley wipes away a few tears and strides forward purposefully, ahead into the stone cottage. Moss and lichen wind around the crumbled walls and quiver ever so slightly as he passes. Ferns reach up towards him, and witch-hazel leans away. He has a sort of gravity and reverse gravity, a push and pull, an aura that makes those near him either cluster close or shy away. Moths flutter around him as if he were a camp-fire, getting closer and then veering away.

Crowley would love that description. It gives him a certain air of intimidation, or cachet. What you must understand is that Crowley is not cool. He is only intimidating when he forgets himself, when his hold on his human visage slips to reveal his underside, the pale belly of the cave-thing, the chink in the armor of the dragon, the black hole in the middle of the galaxy. When he tries to frighten, only those with a weaker will or a sensitive temperament bend to him. Those with a weaker will, or plants.

Crowley rarely forgets himself, being nervous and insecure to the end. He only lets his insides show when terribly drunk on expensive liquor or in the company of his closest confidant, his worst enemy. After all, what is a nemesis but a dearly loved best friend? 

And so we see him inside a stone cottage, long abandoned [2]. He lifts his hands and says a few words. Not in the way that a sister might say a few words at a brother’s funeral, but in the way a witch might say a few words at the threshold of her home to ward away evil spirits. Not that Crowley was warding away evil spirits, being an evil spirit himself. No, he was doing his own version of protection, a cocktail of dark magics and good will manifesting as a thick fog encircling the small property. 

To the unwelcome, the cottage would appear derelict and ghostly, draped in garb of moss and mycelium, sending shivers down spines. To those in need, the cottage would glow with a welcoming light. The walls would be whole and sturdy, keeping cold out and warmth in. The hearth would blaze, and the cupboards would be full. The lost traveler would search for the owner of the property, but would find none. They would sleep soundly in a warm, cozy bed, but would wake to a cold and empty room, covered only by moth-eaten blankets. As they look around, they see the hearth barren, void of even charred wood. Checking the cabinets for breakfast, they find nothing. The lost traveler, unnerved, departs quickly.

This is the sort of magic that Crowley works. It is the closest to Hellish that he gets. Hell, after all, features very little fire and flame. Hell is rotting flesh, boils, and muck. The Hell that follows Crowley is mildew, mycelium, and mist. It’s the place under piles of leaves. It’s mice, paralyzed by venom. It’s poisonous mushrooms. It’s four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.

Crowley lowers his arms, magic done. The cottage sighs and settles, a soft grinding belying the subtle movement. The man that is not a man steps quietly out the missing door, bare feet leaving no prints. Moss springs up in his wake. The sun, which had been stuck in the nebulous state of “just under the horizon” finally carries on its way, raising the stars overhead behind it.

Starlight casts down into the clearing that houses the little cottage. The demon once known as Crawly, and before that was known by a name only one being remembers, is gone. All that is left is four stone walls, a fairy ring, and a whole manner of plants a little more sentient than before.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Don’t take fairy food, for fear of consequences, the elders say. In this case, it’s just because Crowley is venomous, something he’s rather ashamed of. 
> 
> [2] Is the cottage really the one that’s long abandoned? 
> 
> Kudos and comment if you feel so inclined! I'm fifteen and desperate for validation


End file.
